


Family = (Nucleus + Electron)

by yet_intrepid



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunk John Winchester, Gen, Holidays, Teenchesters, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 14:02:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2390969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Snow blows in with Dad, wind near as sharp as any knife Sam’s ever felt and he’s felt too damn many of them for a high school kid. It’s late November and only starting to really be winter, but Sam’s still pissed at the weather. If they didn’t have to go running every day, he thinks he might like snow. As it is, it’s just one more reason to hate today.</p>
<p>Dad stomps his boots. Stumbles. Sam can smell the liquor."</p>
<p>Sam would rather bury himself in AP Chem than try to act like it's a holiday, but in a nuclear family that vacillates between atom and ion, he's got to be careful not to upset the delicate balance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family = (Nucleus + Electron)

**Author's Note:**

> I know the parentheses in the title wouldn't be necessary if it were actually an equation, but it looks better, okay.

“Even  _you_  can’t study on Thanksgiving,” Dean announces, slapping the back of Sam’s head. He crosses from the door to the table, sets down two bags. “Come on, geek. Dad called; he’s home in five. Won’t wanna see you nose-deep in AP Chem.”

Sam flips the page, considers his options for responses. He debates for a moment between  _what do you mean, Thanksgiving_ , and  _Dad doesn’t care what I do_  before deciding that the first will just make Dean mad and the second, though it springs easily to his lips, is a wishful lie. Dad cares way too much about what Sam does. Or rather, about what he thinks Sam should be doing.

“I have a test on Monday,” he finally answers. “And on top of that, my lit teacher decided to give us a four-page paper over the break. So yes, Dean, I  _can_  study on Thanksgiving.”

Dean pulls out a bucket of fried chicken. Some beer, jellied cranberries for Dad, a can of corn for Sam. He shakes his head. “Fine, but you’re missing out. Because we are going to turn on football and eat pie, and if you want to read about freaking neurons and shit—”

“ _Neutrons_ , Dean; neurons are in biology—”

“Neurons, neutrons, still shit—”

They hear footsteps. Quick as anything, Dean shuts up and clicks the TV on. Sam shuts his AP Chem book just as fast and hides it under the couch, because he knows how Thanksgiving goes. Today is not a good day to have this fight.

Snow blows in with Dad, wind near as sharp as any knife Sam’s ever felt and he’s felt too damn many of them for a high school kid. It’s late November and only starting to really be winter, but Sam’s still pissed at the weather. If they didn’t have to go running every day, he thinks he might like snow. As it is, it’s just one more reason to hate today.

Dad stomps his boots. Stumbles. Sam can smell the liquor.

“Get off the couch, Sam,” says Dean, as he hurries to support Dad.

Sam gets off the couch. Thinks about his lit paper. Smells the fried chicken, and he really should be hungry, but he isn’t. He just wants to get away. Or wants Dad to go. Either one.

Dad’s full length on the couch now, football game blaring in his face. He looks over at Sam.

_Fuck_ , thinks Sam.

“You keep up with your shooting while I was gone, Sam?” Dad slurs.

If Sam lies, Dad’ll find out. “I kept up with my schoolwork, sir,” he snaps instead.

“I bought those jellied cranberries you like, Dad,” Dean interrupts. “Got some beer, too. You ready to eat? It’s seven o’clock, almost.”

“Naw,” says Dad. He digs around in his coat, pulls out his flask. “Just save me some. And you don’t open those cranberries, you hear me?”

Sam rolls his eyes. Nobody else even eats jellied cranberries.

Dean goes on setting out the food. By the time he’s done, Dad’s passed out. Tired or drunk or hurt or dead and Sam doesn’t give a damn which.

“Come on,” says Dean. He’s heated up the corn in the microwave and is holding it out, like he’s trying to lure Sam in. “I wanna get to that pie.”

“So just eat it,” Sam mumbles. “Nobody’s stopping you.”

He approaches the couch carefully and reaches underneath. When Dad doesn’t stir, Sam pulls out the AP Chem book and takes it with him to the table. He sits down across from Dean and opens the book on his lap.

“Dude,” says Dean. “Thanksgiving.”

“I’m thankful for school,” says Sam.

Between them, they get through most of the bucket of fried chicken. Sam eats corn and Dean has all but one bite of Sam’s pie. They don’t open the cranberries.

Sam studies, and he thinks: there is an atom somewhere named Winchester. It has a proton called Sam, with a stated charge. It has a neutron called Dean, balancing out his weight and sticking close. And it has an electron called Dad, whose charge is supposed to get along with Sam’s. But instead, the electron called Dad zooms around on its passageways, never close enough to touch but never far enough to leave.

“They don’t know what makes atoms work,” Sam says conversationally, as they clear away the trash. “Why they don’t just collapse.”

“Good to know,” Dean snarks back.

Sam doesn’t know what’s keeping the atom called their family from collapse, either. But he’s pretty sure a bucket of fried chicken isn’t enough.


End file.
